


be my electric

by seventhswan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, what big teeth you have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhswan/pseuds/seventhswan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has this stupid – this fantasy, is all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	be my electric

**Author's Note:**

> I know the Little Red thing’s been done, but I just couldn’t resist. Hopefully this is at least a tiny twist on it. This is nebulously set sometime after season two, ignoring everything that takes place in season three. Also features non-canon details, like a sort-of-rebuilt Hale house. I apologize for any mistakes I've made with canon details.
> 
> Warnings: please see the end of the work for warnings (they’re mild). Additionally, if you can see something else that needs a warning, please don’t hesitate to let me know!
> 
> Title from MGMT’s **Electric Feel** (sort of).

The disappointing thing – well, the _most_ disappointing thing – about Peter coming back from the dead is that it’s impossible to properly rile him, these days. 

Gone is the monstrous black blur of the alpha chasing them through darkened hallways, and in its place is just Peter Hale - who responds to threats on his life, super bad-taste coma jokes, _and_ being thrown through the kitchen wall by Derek (once Stiles decided to try to get to Peter through chaos theory, with a sly nudge of Derek a handy substitute for the flap of butterfly wings) with the same raised eyebrow and minute shrug, as if he’s sighing _you can do better_.

Stiles can’t do any better, though. It’s mid-July, hot as hell out, the days long and sticky and still and _dull_ , and Stiles is out of juice. He worries he doesn’t know how to live the quiet life anymore, as he dozes on the front porch of the Hale house, watching with one drowsy eye while Erica wrestles the shit out of Isaac on the grass.

“Seven point four,” he scores, nose wrinkled. Erica makes a face at him, then knees Isaac in the stomach.

“Nine point oh,” he revises, and Erica flicks her hair smugly. Isaac groans, but after a winded second he gets up and they start again, Erica’s teeth flashing, her lipstick slightly smeared, wild.

Stiles doesn’t have werewolf senses, but he doesn’t need them to know Peter’s crept out of the house to lounge against the strut just behind him. He can feel Peter’s gaze on the back of his neck, where it burned earlier in the sun.

“What do you want, Mother-may-I-play-with-danger?” Stiles asks, inflectionless. Predictably, Peter doesn’t take the bait.

“What are you thinking about, Stiles?” Peter asks. God, his voice is so creepy. He only seems to have two modes, somehow: Bad Touch and Snake Oil Salesman, and nothing in-between.

“’s if I’d tell you,” Stiles half-slurs, the side of his mouth mashed against the porch’s wooden beam. Mostly, he’s wondering whether the porch would be as uncomfortable to nap on as he thinks. Probably.

“Oh, I think you will, eventually,” Peter says, and he sounds almost cheerful, like he’s bouncing on his toes. Stiles is about to turn around to stare at him, when there’s a sharp, stinging tap on his shoulder. He hisses and grabs ineffectually at the site of pain.

“Bug,” is all Peter says, smiling, when Stiles does turn to stare at him, slack-jawed.

|

In the end, Stiles isn’t even sure what it is that really makes Peter snap. It had been a long, long afternoon campaign of needling, of the two of them rubbing up against each other like sandpaper, and then the others left to pick up dinner and –

Stiles is fast, that’s about his only saving grace. He realises an instant before Peter tries to grab him that that is what’s about to happen, and he _runs._ He skids a little bit against the unfinished kitchen floor, almost trips, and his heart jackhammers in his chest like it’s trying to jump out. He runs so fast he worries that his legs won’t be able to keep up and he’ll go straight down on his face - he has this curious numb feeling like he’s floating from the knees down, he can’t feel the pound of his feet on the ground though he can hear the distinctive sneaker slap.

_Stupidly_ , though, he doesn’t run out the back door into the woods – he runs _up_ , almost putting his foot through the stair that’s only half a stair, and turns left into what maybe used to be a bedroom. His hands shake while he shuts the door, fingers fumbling with the charred knob. Peter isn’t running any more – his footsteps are soft, echoing, a leisurely threat. Stiles has caged himself, all he can do is wait for Peter to get to him, and Peter knows.

Stiles screws his eyes shut, his back against the door. He’s sweating, and half-worried he’s going to vomit.

“Stiles,” Peter breathes, right up against the crack between the door and the wall. Stiles swallows.

“I know you’re in there, Stiles,” Peter says, voice warm and light, and then there’s the sound of Peter’s claws raking once down the pockmarked plaster next to the doorframe. Stiles accidentally takes a big hiccupping breath, then winces.

“There you are,” Peter sing-songs, and then Stiles has about a second to hurl himself away from the door before it’s wrenched back off its half-a-hinge and left to dangle.

Stiles opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t breathe. His hands are tingling. Peter just stands in the doorway, arms crossed, while Stiles draws back into himself, bringing his vulnerable wrists up to his chest, shrinking in. His mouth is open so he can gulp in breaths, parted lips shaking. He feels – he feels giddy, like he’s seven again and one of the bigger kids is chasing him in the part of the playground behind the trees, and he knows– _knows_ – he’s going to be caught and held down until he shrieks for mercy, red-faced and desperate. The tension is unbearable, and somehow amazing.

Peter suddenly gets a funny look on his face, like he’s scented something interesting. His claws retract.

“It’s only a game, Stiles,” he says, head cocked. Then he grins. “No need to get so – so _bothered_.”

Stiles feels stupid. He forces himself to unbow a little, to close his mouth, to steady.

“Yeah,” he snaps, resisting the urge to physically shake himself out. “Playtime with a murderer, sure, but okay. Excuse me for being a little creeped out.”

“But you’re not,” Peter says, frowning like he’s genuinely confused. It’s bullshit, of course – if Peter ever is genuinely confused, he never shows it. Stiles flushes a ferocious red, his ears burning. “You’re not creeped out at all, Stiles, are you?“

There’s a long beat of silence, Peter and Stiles regarding each other in silent stalemate across the room. Stiles really needs to swallow, but he’s afraid it’ll sound like a gunshot.

He’s saved by the sound of tires pulling up to the house. It’s enough to galvanize him into motion, so he shoulders roughly past Peter, and out of the room.

|

The Sheriff’s on night shift a week later, and Stiles has all the windows in the house open against the heat. He lies on his bed like a starfish, groaning and praying to every deity he can think of – and some most definitely made up – for this weather to break.

The scratching starts after two AM. Just light noises against his bedroom window, and then sounds against the roof like raindrops. Stiles rolls his eyes and then rolls out of bed, sweat-sticky and pissed off. Grumbling to himself, he waves a broom out the window in case it’s across-the-street’s cat, and then he shuts his window because the last thing he needs tonight is the dumb thing deciding to try to crawl into bed with him again.

He’s just about got settled again when it starts once more at two-thirty. This time, Stiles opens the window halfway and sticks his head and shoulders out, glaring into the dark.

“You’re not funny, Scott,” he hisses. He waits maybe thirty seconds and then, when there’s nothing else, sighs and pads back to bed.

When it happens again, just before three, it’s accompanied by a soft groaning sound. Despite himself – because jesus, maybe he watched a spooky old movie before bed but he’s seventeen and his best friend is a werewolf! – he feels a little weirded out. Scott doesn’t have this kind of dedication to mischief, and Spots should have slunk home by now, having been categorically denied the pleasure of Stiles’ company.

His heart thumping, he sits up in bed and draws the sheet up around his chin. He’s got a flashlight in his nightstand, but he doesn’t exactly feel like stepping out onto the lawn in his underwear and looking for whatever’s making that sound. Maybe he has an overactive imagination, but he can’t help his mind flashing to all those ancient monster encyclopaedias Lydia has been poring over lately, the vivid, scratchy illustrations making her wrinkle her nose as though she can smell the spilled blood wafting from the paper.

The groaning comes again. He shuts his eyes tight, his breath speeding up. This is ridiculous, there’s nothing there, it’s just late and Stiles is tired, and –

Then he sees it - red eyes blinking past his window, and a flash of teeth.

|

When he clambers out of the Jeep and strides up to the Hale house the next morning, he is _livid._

“Where’s Derek?” he demands, when he gets into the kitchen and finds Peter calmly eating a bowl of milky cereal. He grins around his spoon, but just shrugs.

“Not here,” he says, unruffled. Stiles can feel a twitch starting in his left eye.

“I need a witness!” he barks, arms flailing.

“The puppies are gone, too,” is all Peter says to that, putting his bowl down on the counter and wiping his mouth on his wrist. 

“You – _you_ ,” Stiles spits, infuriated, and _this_ is why he wanted a witness, so that after he strangled Peter, someone could vouch for him, confirm that he was provoked.

Peter only smiles, eyes bright in a parody of genuine benevolence.

“Oh, but Stiles,” he says sweetly, “I only gave you what you wanted.”

|

After Stiles has calmed down, he thinks that maybe after all the coma jokes, and the Sweeney Todd jokes, and the – well, the charitable might call it _deliberate and repeated provocation_ , he may just have deserved Peter’s prank. 

So he stays away from the Hale house for the next week in favor of staying home and doing chores while his dad’s at work, then spending the evenings curled on the sofa listening to him laugh at old _Golden Girls_ reruns. It’s restful, and he hadn’t realised how much he just plain missed his dad’s company, especially when his dad smiles his crinkly smile at Stiles over Sunday bacon brunch and says _it’s been so great to have you around more lately, son._

So everything’s good, except for the – Stiles isn’t quite sure whether to call them nightmares, exactly.

It’s just that, every single night, he dreams of being chased by a hideous beast through a never-ending forest like he’s in that trippy sequence from _Snow White_. Every part of him tingles, and his clothing catches on tree branches and tears, and he can hear twigs snapping behind him, and he feels that incredible adrenaline rush like his veins are singing.

So, right, sounds like a nightmare, but here’s the thing: dream-Stiles wants to get caught.

Longs for it, in fact, and deliberately never gets too far ahead of the shape chasing him. There’s only one night where Stiles dreams long enough to actually be caught – and then, the ‘beast’ resolves itself into a faceless man, broad but not monstrous, who puts a hand over Stiles’ mouth, presses the other to the flicker of Stiles’ pulse in the hollow of his throat, and murmurs _shh, it’s alright._

Then of course, Stiles wakes up, utterly confused, because that’s some weirdo Freud shit right there. Who has nightmares they don’t want to wake up from? It doesn’t make any sense.

|

He can’t stay away from the Hale house _forever_ without attracting suspicion, even if it is so dusty and depressing that it resembles what Stiles imagines Bruce Wayne’s cave of immense manpain might have ended up like had he not been filthy rich. After two weeks Scott is basically manhandling Stiles into the Jeep complaining that if he has to suffer training with the others, Stiles has to suffer, too. And Stiles doesn’t think mumbling something about the Hale house possibly being responsible for his oddly pleasurable nightmares will really cut it.

Peter’s there, of course, because the universe hates Stiles, but Stiles manages to ignore him lurking like a particularly stubborn patch of bathroom mold in favor of sprawling out in the sunny backyard. He even gets halfway through his book before he feels Peter sit down beside him, it’s like a new record.

“What are you thinking about, Stiles,” Peter says. It lacks the proper intonation to be a question. The others are in the front yard attacking Derek for practice or possibly just for kicks, so it’s only the two of them.

Stiles is tired because he spends every night running, and he’s having a horrible, dawning realization. He rolls over onto his stomach like that’ll help. It doesn’t. He swallows, and closes his eyes in shame.

“I think you know,” he mumbles. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to be able to see the exact shape of Peter’s grin.

“Oh, I do,” he agrees. Stiles can hear him catching blades of grass in his fist and ripping them from the ground, methodically. “I've just been waiting.”

|

“This is stupid,” Stiles says. It’s just started to go dark, the sun turning in and night falling, becoming – finally, blissfully – cool. He crosses his arms self-consciously, and Peter raises his _you can do better_ eyebrow.

“You can have it if you want it,” Peter says, nonchalant. “It’s up to you.”

Stiles _does_ want, is the awful thing. It’s just that he thought he’d burned up all his embarrassment explaining – haltingly, stuttering – what he wanted to Peter, what he’d been thinking about. Peter already knew virtually all of it, was the most shameful thing, and every time he recalls the indulgent, satisfied expression on Peter’s face, Stiles discovers a vast ocean of embarrassment still waiting to be tapped into.

“Okay,” he says, forcing it down because he’s got this far, and bends to check his shoelaces are properly tied. Peter picks up the stopwatch hanging on a cord around his neck and waves it.

“I’ll give you forty-five seconds,” he says. “Just like we agreed.”

“It’s not like that’s going to let me get away, anyway,” Stiles says, snorting, and Peter grins.

“No,” he agrees. He taps the edge of the stopwatch against his lip, thoughtful. “I can make it less, if you like. Or more.”

It occurs to Stiles to ask why Peter is doing this for him, why he’s even being pretty considerate about it, letting Stiles have a safeword and everything, if the headrush and the adrenaline turn unpleasant and he needs to tap out. He doesn’t – doesn’t need to ask, though, not really. Stiles may not have Peter’s creepy werewolf-voodoo, but he’s got eyes, and sometimes Peter looks at him with this raw, naked, hungry gaze, like he really is a wolf. Peter gets his kicks on weird shit like this, probably; on being feared, definitely; and possibly on the fact that Stiles is seventeen, and annoying, and vulnerable.

There’s a reason why, when Stiles has thought about this, it’s always Peter – not Derek, say, or Scott, or even Erica. Peter can live it better than any of them could ever act it, even on their best day.

“Nah,” he says, taking three steps forward, towards the edge of the trees. It feels so insanely _stupid_ to turn his back to Peter like this. A shiver of anticipation skitters down his spine. “Leave it at forty-five.”

And then he runs, like taking flight.

|

Peter catches him at what must be only about a minute in, but feels like twenty.

“Don’t – don’t hurt me, please,” Stiles breathes, voice shaking, as he cowers against the tree trunk – half playing it up, half serious. Peter traps him with a hand on either side of his head, and bares his teeth. Stiles feels a terrified thrill in his gut.

And there it is, then – the wet mouth against his jaw, loose, but too unhurried and assured to be sloppy, as though Peter knows he will get his fill. There’s a hint of teeth buried right in the dark heart of it, and Stiles thinks of sea creatures in the briny deep, blind crawling things, nothing but suctioning mouths connected to stomachs. Stiles shudders. He lifts his chin to bare his throat more.

“Oh, _Stiles_ ,” Peter croons, low. He takes one of Stiles’ wrists in his hand, his claws grazing the pulse point, where Stiles’ blood shrieks and thumps, racing. Peter’s mouth curls up like paper that’s been set alight, and then he breathes at the juncture of Stile’s jaw, taking a long, sweet draught. “It wounds that you doubt my manners so.”

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Stiles is underage, though nothing in this story warrants more than a mild PG-13 rating. Obviously there’s the age difference between Stiles and Peter, and with that (and the fact that Peter's a werewolf) comes a significant power differential - though once Stiles figures out what it is he wants, it’s a differential he specifically enjoys.


End file.
